Shipping Out
by cafenera
Summary: A character prepares to ship out to Atlantis. Set during the pilot episode.


Title: Shipping Out

Author: in her own write

Rating: G

Summary: How do you leave home, knowing you may never again see Earth?

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You think it must be something like a war survivor's tale: with only the packs we had on our  
backs, we fled the city, searching for a place to spend the night.

Only you weren't exactly fleeing, and the entire expedition was supplied with the United States  
Air Force's best material-wise and people-wise.

But you were told that you had a mere couple of days to say goodbye to those you loved,  
and not tell them that the odds were that you would never come back. Your cover this time is a  
"long term satellite reconnaissance" mission: to Mom, all that that means is that you're going  
to be stargazing in Colorado, not on the ground in Afghanistan or Iraq.

So you ask for your favorite food for dinner, and she serves it as she always has before you  
head off. The family is somewhat puzzled by the tears that appear when Louis Armstrong  
comes on the radio in the background, but they ignore it; that's the way things work, here.

You watch some stupid late night cartoon with your little sister: watching the talking heads with  
her, you can see shadows of the woman she's going to become, but you can't say that, since  
it's something you would tell your little sister if you weren't going to ever see her again. So you  
tease her about the posters of boy bands on her walls, and tickle her until she cries.

That night, when the whole family has gone to sleep, you sit in the kitchen, drinking some of Mom's tea,  
the funny herbal kind you oversugared when you were sick when you were in kindergarten. You think,  
the calming effects of the tea taking over so that you're more meditative than weepy.

You're ashamed that you don't know what you'll miss more, Earth or your family. You've had the  
whole culture shock thing before: you spent a few semesters abroad in college, and then some  
time in other countries in the Force, but that was infinitely different.

Not only do you not know if you'll ever see Amy again, you don't know if you'll ever watch TV  
or a cartoon or eat popcorn or ride a bike

Suddenly, everything has become infinitely precious to you. You want to wrap yourself in  
your world, to memorize everything, to celebrate everything.

All of the sudden, your SGC missions take on new meaning. You weren't just fighting for  
the future of the Earth, _you were fighting for the future of the Earth_. You were fighting  
for Ritz Crackers and broken fire hydrants and the girl who dumped you in high school and  
post-it notes and your mom's sleepytime tea and Louis Armstrong and gum on the sidewalk  
and the stupid people who spit gum on the sidewalk and the plastic American flag you  
saluted in kindergarten.

So maybe it is worth it, leaving it all behind. At least if you can't be there to appreciate it,  
the rest of the world will be.

You feel tears running silently down your face.

Getting up, you brush your teeth and set yourself in bed in a daze. It's the first good night's  
sleep you've had since accepting this mission.

In the morning, Mom comes in and wakes you, the smell of a home-cooked breakfast  
wafting in behind her. You grumble, but it's just for the tradition of the activity – your  
stomach wants food.

After eating, you shower, then go to pack. You're allowed one knapsack of standard  
Air Force size of personal items.

Photos are a given.

A small journal and your well-worn copies of The Little Prince and The Hitchhiker's Guide  
to the Galaxy are the only books you'll allow yourself.

(You have to fight the urge to pack a towel.)

A bag of chocolate chips.

Five iPods, each filled with all the music you could get your hands on in the last few days.  
Followed by a dozen batteries.

A few tubes of chap stick.

A lifetime's worth of memories versus a lifetime's worth of supplies. How are you  
supposed to fit it all in one bag?

You vainly allow yourself a cologne, crammed in next to your razor.

Strange that you have to resist packing your wallet and extra change. The odds are that  
the rest of the galaxy won't care if you have a driver's license or platinum charge card.

The rest of the packing goes without incident.

Until you head out the front door. As usual, the family's there to see you off.

Everything everyone says and does is imprinted on your mind. The way Amy's favorite  
purple unicorn sweatshirt has a hole at the elbow, Mom's funny wave you used to make  
fun of, Dad's slight smell of the cigarettes he claims to have given up years ago.

It's surreal.

Then Mom pushes a handkerchief into your hands the way she has every time you've left  
the house since forever and you almost breakdown.

You tell them that you love them, since it would be impossible to leave without doing so,  
even if it may break some kind of regulation.

They can tell something's up, but they don't press you, thank god.

You'd hate for that to be your last memories of each other.

So you get in the car and head off like you're starting any other assignment.

At the base, everything is a blur. Orders are given and followed, rapid-fire, and it's a  
relief not to have to think.

Then almost before you know it, you're standing, once more before the gate. You listen  
with half a mind to the speeches, the sounds of the SGC's air conditioners echoing twice  
as loudly in your head.

Then your feet start moving. You look down, then around, and realize that everyone  
around you is headed in the same direction.

When you're close enough that all you can see is blue, you catch your breath and  
clench a freshly-pressed handkerchief in your damp palm.

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